The next day, Hermione woke slowly from a deep, uninterrupted sleep to find that her bed was occupied by another pair of legs apart from her own.

Frowning, she stretched out her foot and nudged Luna's calf. "Luna," she hissed, to no effect. She had to push away a chunk of the covers before she uncovered Luna's face, angelic, blissful, tucked in against a pillow not even a foot away from Hermione's own.

Hermione paused for a moment, reluctant to wake her. But no. A glance at the windows told her they had slept quite late — sunlight beamed in brilliant cracks and seams around the curtains. She tapped Luna on the forehead. "Luna," she said. "Wake up."

It took a few moments, but eventually, it worked. Luna blinked up at her with those brilliant blue eyes and stretched into a yawn. "Hermione! Good morning."

"Morning. Luna, dear, why are you in my bed?"

"Oh!" Luna stretched again, reaching her hands up towards the ceiling. "I had a small nightmare, and could not get back to sleep. I came to see you, but you were so blissfully asleep I could not bear to wake you. I resolved to lie down for a few moments, and here we are."

"A nightmare, Luna? What about?"

"Oh," Luna sighed. "It was about the ladybirds, in the garden. A wasp, a dreadful wasp, was hunting them and they were forced to flee to another garden in London."

Hermione stared at her for a moment. She honestly could not tell whether Luna was being truthful. She knew that if Luna had had a nightmare about something serious, about her mother, perhaps, that she would not admit it. "Sounds awful."

"Indeed, but it is all over now!" Luna sat up, tossing her braid over her shoulder. "We have quite a day ahead of us. We must not dally for even a moment!"

"Luna," said Hermione. "You cannot honestly tell me that you are looking forward to this ball. It is our third this week alone."

Luna shrugged. "No, but the Marchbanks family has one of the best pastry chefs in London." She grinned suddenly. "And I must admit I am quite excited to see a certain someone."

Hermione smiled. "Lord Cadogan?"

"Lord Crawley," Luna replied, wistful, but before Hermione could react, her bedroom door opened and Lisette marched into the room.

"Bonjour, ma chère!" Lisette sang, but she halted when she saw that Hermione's bed was occupied by one more person than usual. "Miss Lovegood! What are you—?"

"She had a nightmare, Lis," said Hermione. Down the hall, they could hear a set of running footsteps, getting louder and closer until they crashed into Hermione's room—

"She's gone!" Mattie burst out in a horrified whisper. She wobbled, barely catching herself on a nearby chair. "My Luna is gone!"

"Not at all, Mattie," Luna piped up, waving at her. "I am here."

Lisette tsked while Mattie collapsed into the chair, half-faint. "You girls," said Lisette, throwing open a set of curtains. "If you aren't giving us heart attacks, you are making us lose hair. Now." She glanced at the door, which was cracked open, and, satisfied that no one was approaching, hurried to the bed. "Quickly, before she sees—"

Lisette extracted a crumpled paper bag from the depths of her apron and threw it at Hermione, who caught it midair. She upended it onto the bed, and out rolled half a dozen hot cross buns, still warm from the oven.

"There is a baker," Lisette hissed, "two streets over, who makes them during the whole summer. Apparently, Mademoiselle, you are not the only one who likes them out of Lent."

"Thank you!" Hermione whispered, frantically pushing three of them towards Luna. "Quick, Luna, this is our best chance at solid food before this evening—"

"You are too kind!" Luna immediately bit one of them in half and threw another at Mattie. It landed in her lap. "Eat, Mattie, you've gone a very funny color."

Mattie took a half-hearted bite, then began to eat with more gusto.

"Lisette," said Hermione, through a full mouth. "How is she today?"

Lisette held up her hand in a so-so gesture as she went over to the next set of curtains. "Her temper is no shorter than usual, though she was displeased to find that there were even more tokens delivered to the drawing room this morning." She flung the curtains open and more sunlight poured into the room.

Hermione scoffed, sharing a look with Luna. "She is a piece of work. She wants us to attract suitors, but not too many—"

"And Heaven forbid the suitors demonstrate their interest," Luna added. She cocked her head to one side. "I do wonder what made her temperament so disagreeable. I shall have to consult the toadstools."

Hermione and Lisette's eyes met for a fraction of a moment before they had to look away for fear of giggling. "Tokens?" said Hermione, working on her second bun. "How many?"

"Quite a few," said Lisette, smug as anything. "We should bring some of them upstairs. Oh, and—" She turned and flashed Hermione a grin. "Your father is here."

Hermione let out a strangled gasp, dropped her bun, and rolled off the bed, nearly turning her ankle as she lunged for her dressing gown.

"Be careful!" Lisette admonished, but to no effect — dressing gown hanging off one arm, Hermione tore out of her bedroom and down the hall, almost crashing into Ms. Randolph.

"Sorry!" Hermione gasped, but she didn't stop, not even when Ms. Randolph cried, "We do not stampede like wild animals, Miss Granger!"

Hermione nearly fell down the stairs, but she managed to catch herself when she reached the first landing. She ducked an oncoming tray of silver as she tumbled onto the ground floor, frantically tugging her dressing gown into place. The door to the drawing room was open, and she burst in, taking little notice of the growing piles of flowers—

There he was. Standing by the fireplace. Sir Ian turned, surprise overtaking his features as he looked at her. "Hermione—" he began, but then she charged at him and flung herself into his arms.

Her father let out a wheeze but caught her all the same, and she could feel his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "My," he managed. "Good morning to you, too."

"I've missed you," she whispered, burying her face in his shoulder. He was wearing one of his newer, fancier coats, freshly-pressed, and it smelt of his favorite tobacco.

"And I you," Sir Ian replied. After a moment, he gently shifted away, taking her hands in his own, and looked her in the face. "I came because I wanted to see how you were doing. I've had reports from the Queen and from Xeno, of course, but I wanted to hear it from you."

"I'm fine," she said, and for a moment, she worried that he could see everything, the truth of it all, written plainly in her eyes. After all, her response was a vast understatement of everything she was feeling at the moment, and her father always knew when she was lying. "Truly, Father. Luna and Lisette are wonderful companions, and they are making everything much easier to bear."

"Good." He squeezed her hands and led her over to a couch. "Now, you must tell me everything. Spare no detail." Sir Ian nodded to the nearest table, where a huge pot of tea sat beside a plate of sandwiches, cakes, and deviled eggs. "We have provisions."

Hermione passed a very pleasant hour doing just that — telling him everything that had happened since he last saw her, only leaving out the more personal details about the Duke. Her father laughed, grinned, and even cringed at all the right moments, and for a while, she glowed with it — with the joy of sharing her life with him, having him here as her friend as well as her parent.

She was also quite happy to eat as many sandwiches as she liked. She was licking a stray bit of butter from the edge of her thumb when he cut her a look and said, "When last we spoke about it, you were treating the season as something to be endured. You spoke as if you wanted to travel in shades and fogs, avoiding attention at any cost. But, it seems as if you have done the opposite."

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. "You try avoiding attention when you are next to the most beautiful girl in the room. You can thank your friend the Queen for that one."

"I see your point," he replied, raising his teacup to gesture at the piles of flowers. "I can tell you have caught many an eye." His eyes sparkled. "Anyone… worthy of your interest?"

"Not in the least," she said. "That is not what I am here for."

He seemed to soften. "I know." A beat of silence. "So it really is nothing? Your…" He winced. "Flirtation… with the Duke?"

Her face burning, Hermione put her teacup down with a clatter and stood up. "You could not have possibly used a worse word, Father."

He winced again. "I know… it sounded better in my head."

"The Duke and I are nothing." She turned, facing her huge basket of roses. More of them had opened, and their scent was resplendent. She traced one of the blooms with her finger, and felt a part of herself yield. "Well… not nothing. We have more in common than I would have thought. Which is why it is a little easier for us to spend time together."

A very telling pause. Then, "You get along?"

Her father's voice was almost toneless, and she had to admire his ability to conceal a reaction. "We do. We have a shared sense of humor." And a shared sense of survival, she didn't say.

"I see," he replied. "I am… glad you've found that. I have to admit, I was concerned. About you spending time with the young gentlemen of London."

She turned, letting her surprise show. "Really? Why?"

The corner of Sir Ian's mouth twitched. "Because you and your intellect can dance circles around them, and too many men do not like women with minds of their own."

Before Hermione could reply, there came a knock at the door. Sadie, one of the maids, appeared and curtsied. "Miss, there is another delivery of flowers. May we—?"

"Certainly," Hermione said at once, stepping back. "Bring them in."

Sadie pulled open the door, and a small trolley came trundling in. Benny's eyebrows were just visible over the sea of blooms as he guided the trolley into the nearest corner.

"Goodness," Hermione said, feeling a little unsettled. She wasn't even dressed yet. "I do hope most of them are for Luna."

"They are, Miss," said Sadie, with just a flicker of a smile. But then she nodded at a huge bouquet of white roses and camellias interrupted by small purplish clematis. "Except for that one."

Something pricked at Hermione's stomach and threatened to crawl up her throat. She took a quick breath, then approached the trolley with a distinct sense of foreboding. There was a small card nestled between two camellias and she unearthed it with deplorable haste.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.

My secret lies beneath the stems.

—H.

Unbidden, her heart skipped a beat. Hermione blinked, looked up at Sadie's sly face, then looked back down at the card. He wouldn't. Would he?

She shoved the card into the pocket of her gown and, with a distinct sense of foreboding, pushed her hand into the depths of the bouquet. After a few moments, her fingers brushed against something stiff and rough to the truth. Frowning, she gripped it, and yanked it out of the flowers.

Half of the bouquet collapsed, but it did not matter. Bewildered, Hermione stared at the small, burlap-wrapped parcel in her hand. It was misshapen, lumpy, though uniformly packed.

"What is it?" said her father, breaking the relative silence.

"I have no idea," she replied, bringing the parcel over to the couch. She sat down, tugged at the knotted twine holding it together, and could only stare as the burlap unfurled and revealed its hidden treasure.

A beat passed. Then two.

"Is that," her father finally said, "a meat pie?"

"And tomatoes," she said, her face on fire, unable to keep herself from grinning.

For the first time since her arrival in London, Hermione stepped out onto a gravel drive, looking up at the massive house before her, and felt a distinct sense of calm. She smiled up at the glowing windows, at the streams of people flooding into the party, and linked arms with Luna. "Don't let's dally. I want a drink."

"You are in a good mood," Luna replied with a smile of her own. As they approached the house, Ms. Randolph hovering behind, people turned to look and curtsy. For once, it did not make Hermione feel unsettled. Instead, it made her feel powerful. "Is there any particular reason, perhaps a title that rhymes with 'Luke?'"

"Not in the least," Hermione replied. "I suppose I am getting used to this. The parading, the curtsying, the smiling. The sooner we get it over with, the sooner we can leave."

Luna squeezed her elbow. "Wait, I know why you've cheered up! You had all those sandwiches this afternoon, you lucky beast—"

Hermione shot her a fretful, sheepish glance. "I am sorry I didn't manage to sneak you one." It had been difficult enough to smuggle the meat pie back into her room. "Someone had them whisked right back to the kitchen when she realized what my father had done."

"It is no matter, Hermione," Luna replied as they began to ascend the stone steps. "I managed to charm a cold chicken leg out of Annie, the kitchen maid."

Hermione blinked at her. "A cooked one, I hope?"

Luna gave a pretty, delighted laugh that turned several dapper heads. "Not at all, Hermione, I make a habit of eating raw meat. Does wonders for one's complexion."

Hermione was just thankful they were too far out of earshot for anyone — even Ms. Randolph — to hear them. Even she couldn't tell if Luna was joking or not. They passed through the front entryway, and she couldn't help herself — she glanced around for a familiar face, a familiar shock of hair. But no. The Duke did not appear, and she refused to feel disappointment of any kind.

Without Lord Devon, their introduction to their hosts was pleasant, mindless, and Hermione made her way into the ballroom feeling as if she had dodged a bullet. Ms. Randolph melted into a nearby crowd of mothers, but gave both of them a sharp, warning look. Miss Brown, she noticed, was keeping her distance with her usual gaggle of followers, and there was no sign of Katie.

"Have you promised any dances to Earl Cadogan?" said Hermione, picking up the train of thought where she had left it earlier that day. "I am sure he is eager to see you."

"Yes," said Luna, smiling again. "The second and the fifth."

"Oh." Hermione did not bother to hide her surprise. "What about the first?"

"Lord Crawley," Luna replied, with something of a sigh. But not a jaded sigh. A wistful sigh. "He is a marvellous dancer."

"Lord Crawley," Hermione repeated, staring at her now. "Why him?"

This, in turn, seemed to surprise Luna. She paused, turning to Hermione. "What do you mean, why? He is a lovely gentleman, and—"

"Luna." Hermione found Luna's gaze and held it. "You cannot be serious."

Luna stared at her for a moment, then took a step away, unlinking their arms and flashing Hermione her best Delphic smile. Hermione stepped back as well, feeling as if she were warding off a blow. "I am perfectly serious," said Luna, her tone betraying only a hint of coolness. "And now, I must see if I can find my partner before the music starts." With that, she turned and made her way across the room, the crowds parting around her like the Red Sea.

It took Hermione several long, bewildering moments to compose herself, long enough for people to notice that she was standing alone. As people — as men — turned to stare at her, her pulse began to throb in her ears, and her corset seemed to tighten around her ribs. Then, she caught a dreaded glimpse of Lord Roden through the crowd. He stopped, looked right at her, and began to make his way—

"Miss Granger," came a deep, disinterested voice from behind her. "Can I offer you a glass of punch?"

She spun around, nearly colliding with the stranger. He stepped back just in time, a muscle in his sharp jaw twitching with irritation as his dark eyes fixed on her face.

"You are too kind," she managed, dipping into a curtsy. "I am afraid I do not know you, sir, I have not made your acquaintance—"

"Malfoy," he said, the French word brittle in his mouth. "Lord Malfoy. Your… friend, the Duke of St. Godric's, asked me to look after you, should you need rescuing." He frowned a little, glancing at the people around them. It was the minutest of expressions; his chiseled, pale face had hardly changed at all. "Mind you, it looks as if he was right, for once."

Her head reeling, Hermione could only stare up at him. Tall, she thought. And skinny. "You are… friends… with the Duke?"

His head twitched a little, and his silvery blond hair shone in the candlelight. His irritation seemed to grow. "Not… friends, so much as comfortable enemies."

"Enemies?" she repeated, her stomach giving an unhelpful swoop. "Then why are you—?"

"Punch?" he said, and with that, he took her hand and led her into the next room.

Hermione couldn't help noticing the way people seemed to shrink from Lord Malfoy's presence as he made his way through the crowd. It was the exact opposite of being with the Duke. "My Lord," she said, once they were within sight of the punch bowl, "I am afraid I don't understand—"

"The Duke is delayed," he said, passing her a glass of punch. His hand, its knuckles heavy with silver rings, hovered over a platter of vol-au-vents before he seemed to think better of it. "He is arriving later than he'd intended, and he asked me to keep an eye on you. Seems you're having trouble with a few handsy suitors."

For some reason, this explanation did not help in the least. Hermione's head continued to spin and she sipped at her punch. It was watery, unimpressive. The Duke, she thought. The Duke tasked someone who is barely his friend to… what, protect me? Keep me company? Why would he do that? And what else did he tell this man? "What about Cadogan?"

Another minute expression flitted across his face — this time, a sardonic grin. "Ah," said Lord Malfoy. "Cadogan is likewise delayed."

"Is he," she replied, her voice flat. Damn, she thought, knocking back the rest of her punch. She was sure Luna would forget Crawley in an instant once she saw Cadogan again. "I don't suppose you can tell me why?"

"Ah," he said again, taking her glass and sliding it onto a tray. "Not my honor to impinge, I'm afraid, as much as I would like to. But fear not, he should appear before long. As is his way."

Curiosity roared through her like a fire. She fought the urge to grab him and shake him until he gave her a straight answer. "So," she said, "how are we to pass the time?"

"In near silence, I would hope." He flashed her a real smile this time, or something close enough to it.

Hermione fought the urge to smack him. "No," she replied. "I think, at the very least, you could tell me what your connection is to the Duke, and to Cadogan. What is it, childhood rivals?"

Lord Malfoy gave a very put-upon sigh. He led her to a nearby empty corner, and she leaned against the wall with some relief. "You are correct, Miss Granger. We were at school together, and we never seemed to get on."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "I cannot see why."

He ignored this. "It's in our blood. His family and mine have never been allies. In fact, some years ago, things got quite dark and dramatic, and while the Duke and I are back to our uneasy truce, our families still prefer to keep a comfortable distance. But, of course, ours is a small world, so butting heads with the Duke was sort of… written in the stars. He could avoid me no more than I could avoid him."

"What was he like at school?" Hermione said, before she could help herself.

Malfoy shot her a glance. It was quick, observant. "Utterly infuriating, to tell you the truth. He's quite clever, when he wants to be, and a bit insufferable about it." Then, to her utter shock and delight, he actually rolled his eyes. "And he was good at sport."

This was too brilliant. Hermione leaned in a little. "And?"

"And," Malfoy acquiesced, "he had a habit of playing the hero." He glanced at her again. "Which, I suppose, explains our present circumstances."

Unbidden, a blush fluttered across Hermione's cheeks and she looked away. "He told you."

"I guessed." Malfoy seemed to conjure a glass of wine from thin air and he sipped at it, contemplative. "He's been very clear about his intentions since a young age. I did not imagine he would ever change his mind, even in the presence of such…" He gestured to her entire person, an echo of Lisette from two days before.

Hermione did not know how to defend herself, and more importantly, she did not want to. "We are helping each other."

He sighed in a disinterested sort of way. "So bloody noble. My wife would find this most entertaining, though perhaps not in a way that would flatter you."

"Wife?" Hermione repeated, not bothering to hide her shock.

"Indeed," he replied, twitching the ring finger of his right hand. A silver ring, heavier and more ornate than the rest, caught the light. He inclined his head to the far corner, where a group of women hovered around a card table. "The one in green."

Hermione followed his gaze to a short, thin woman with a sleek profile and hair as black as a raven's. Her ballgown was lavish and understated all at once, cut in just the one shade of deep emerald with light beading along the décolleté. Her hooded, dark eyes landed on Hermione, and the plush curve of her ruby-red lips twisted into something of a smile. Then, just as quickly, she looked away, dipping her head towards one of her companions.

"Oh," Hermione said. "She is very beautiful."

"Perhaps," Malfoy replied, to her surprise. "Our pairing was determined at birth, so I suppose we must think of each other as, at the very least, passable. Makes for a healthier marriage, you see."

"At birth?" Hermione repeated. "Really?"

"All the old families do it," he replied, like this explained anything. "But we are uncommonly well-matched. Perhaps our parents were on to something, back then. I lead my life, and she leads hers. And we do throw a spectacular dinner party."

"Dinner party," Hermione said, because apparently, that was all she could do. Cling to the wall and try to fathom the reality playing out in front of her. "You do not—?"

"Love her?" Malfoy finished for her, and he almost shrugged. "Love is a consequence, a choice. Even if it is something you fall into by accident, you first have to be clumsy enough to lose your footing. Though I suppose we do have a very special… regard for one another. We live together quite happily, which must mean something." He took a swallow of wine. "Perhaps that is just a result of knowing one another for our entire lives. Very few surprises, when you've caught someone sneaking a cigar and a whiskey from your father's hidden stash."

Whiskey, Hermione thought, taking another glance at Malfoy's wife. She was impressed, in spite of herself. "Why are you telling me this? Surely the ton would have a fit if they knew the truth. To say nothing of Madam Skeeter."

There. A flint, a spark in his eyes. "Because," he said, raising the glass to his mouth, "there is no better person to keep a secret than one with a secret of their own."

It took a few moments. She stared up at him, feeling mutiny curl under her skin. "You wouldn't," she said, her voice in a low throttle.

"I wouldn't," he agreed, twitching an eyebrow. "Without reason."

Hermione stared at him some more. "You are protecting him," she said at last, surprise once again overtaking her. "The Duke."

"He is a good man," Malfoy replied, an edge to his low timbre. "One of the best I know. I will not stand to see him hurt, especially by someone who has known him for all of five minutes."

"Your enemy," she pointed out. "The man you claim you can hardly stand."

"Yes." The muscle in his jaw twitched. "Him."

For a moment, the air between them only thickened, tension pulling them along a wire. Finally, Hermione leaned back, smiling a little. "I wonder how he would react if he happened to hear the details of this little… tête-à-tête of ours."

Then, to her delight, a smile cracked Malfoy's features and he raised his glass. "I can see why he tolerates your company." When she grinned in reply, he shook his head. "And to think I was worried about how we would pass the time."

"How unfathomable," she said, dry as a bone. "Do you read, my Lord?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Shame. There is a remarkable new economic treatise from Denmark, by a gentleman with the name of Jacobsen. I was up for half the other night working through some of his equations. They are quite diverting." When he only stared at her, expressionless, she added, "What are your interests, then?"

"The official line is pheasant-hunting, billiards, and terrorizing my tenants."

"And the unofficial one?"

For all his earlier frankness, now he seemed to hesitate. "Wine," he said, lifting his glass as evidence. "Endless variety and indulgence. The perfect hobby."

"Oh?" She nodded at his glass. "And what do you think of tonight's sampling?"

Lord Malfoy made an elaborate show of sniffing his wine, taking a long, gurgling sip of it, and giving a resigned shrug. "Absolute swill, darling."

Hermione burst into a laugh, but before she could recover, Lord Malfoy stood up straight and schooled his expression. A smooth, Scottish voice behind her said, "I would ask if he was troubling you, my dear, but I believe I already know the answer to that question."

For the second time that evening, Hermione turned and met the gaze of a stranger.

She was an older woman with large, penetrating eyes and a regal posture, dressed in a sumptuous dark blue that was almost black in the dim lighting. She leaned on a thin black cane with a golden handle, and her greying hair was done up in an intricate bun with a small feather cascading over her part. And she looked Hermione over with a keen gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching.

"Draco," the woman said. "Won't you introduce us?"

Draco? Hermione thought as she dipped into a curtsy. That was too good to be true—

"May I present Miss Granger," Malfoy said, his voice stiff. "Miss Granger, this is the Dowager Countess McGonagall."

"My Lady," said Hermione, bowing her head. "An honor."

Lady McGonagall chuckled, a small, throaty chirp of a sound. "Goodness me. I can see why you are the center of so much attention, Miss Granger."

Hermione's face prickled. "You flatter me, my Lady."

"Not in the least. When and if I flatter you, you shall know it." Lady McGonagall shot Lord Malfoy a sharp look. "Is he behaving?"

"So far, my Lady."

"I should hope so." Lady McGonagall arched a brow. "He required a firmer hand when he was younger, but I think you are up to the challenge, should it become necessary."

Delight overcame Hermione and she could not keep herself from smiling. "You knew my Lord when he was a child?"

"Of course I did," Lady McGonagall replied. "Just as I knew everyone who crossed my godson's path. Though, of course, this one left more of an impression than others."

"The Dowager Countess," said Malfoy stiffly, "is the Duke's godmother."

"Oh!" Suddenly, things made a lot more sense. "I had no idea. Apologies, my Lady."

She spun her cane in reply, knocking Hermione's words out of the air. "None needed. Even though it is common knowledge, you are new to court, and the uncommon and the common rarely meet." A brief pause, during which she scrutinized Hermione with her bright, pale blue gaze. "I understand you have caught my godson's eye."

Oh Lord. Something caught in Hermione's throat and stayed there. "Perhaps," she managed. "I would never attempt to speak to the Duke's inclinations."

Lady McGonagall gave her a sharp grin. "What a diplomatic reply." She turned to Malfoy. "Draco, fetch me a glass of wine."

"Are you certain?" he said, looking down at his own wine and wincing a little. "I myself would not indulge in a second glass—"

She rapped him on the leg with her cane. "Draco!"

"Very well." With that, Malfoy headed for the refreshment table, but not before shooting Hermione a warning look.

"Tell me, Miss Granger." Lady McGonagall stared her down again, an enigmatic smile playing about her mouth. "Where were you educated?"

For a moment, Hermione could only stare back at her. "Educated?"

"You think I do not know a good mind when I see one?" Lady McGonagall shook her head. "I have heard whispers of your intellect."

"Then the Lady must know that I would never admit to such a thing in the present company." Hermione shot a meaningful glance around the room. "Doing so would leave me open to ridicule, or worse."

Lady McGonagall gave a sigh. "I suppose." She leaned in closer. "Though perhaps you could give me a hint? I myself have a particular fondness for the Greek tragedians. Always so delightfully bloody and full of metaphor." After glancing behind her, her voice dropped to a whisper. "I even learned to read Greek. It was easier than trying to find copies of translations."

In spite of herself, Hermione was impressed. She leaned forward as well, whispering, "I myself learned Latin to read the Aeneid. Greek," she added, "is my next project. I just cannot seem to find a suitable tutor."

Lady McGonagall nodded, thoughtful. "There may be someone," she whispered. "I shall have to see if he is still in retirement. But who knows, perhaps the right entreaty might convince him otherwise." She cocked her head to one side. "The Aeneid?"

"And Ovid. Herodotus, Livy, Tacitus." Hermione shrugged. "Anything I could find, really."

"Ah, yes. You grew up quite alone, I gather?" At Hermione's nod, Lady McGonagall gave her another thoughtful look. "In a life of solitude, you turned to books. By comparison, my godson turned to the outdoors. There was hardly a day he did not come home with a new creature in his pocket, or an owl following his shadow. And then, of course, there was always Longbottom — or, I suppose, the Earl, as you know him."

"Yes," Hermione said, still processing everything she'd just heard. "Owls?"

"Indeed." Lady McGonagall stepped back, resuming her poised stature in time to accept her glass of wine from Malfoy. "Thank you, Draco, though you certainly took your time."

"Not at all, my Lady." Malfoy raised his refilled glass to her before he took a sip.

"I don't suppose you know when my godson will deign to show his face?" she went on. "When he does, he must have an explanation for abandoning Miss Granger for such an extraordinary length of time."

"He and the Earl are delayed." Draco seemed to relish saying it. "He should be along soon." He glanced at Hermione. "It is still strange, referring to them by title. For years they were just Longbottom and the Prat."

"Draco!" Lady McGonagall thwacked him once again with her cane, and Hermione stifled a giggle as Malfoy staggered and winced, nearly spilling his wine. "Manners!"

"That was not necessary," he hissed, straightening up. "They're the ones who are late, which makes them far more deserving of your ire."

Lady McGonagall's eyes flashed. "You know better than most, my dear boy, what may come of telling me where to direct my frustration."

Malfoy bristled, but before he could reply—

"Come now, Lady McGonagall, there is no need to be so vindictive." The Duke stepped up to their little cluster, a smile threatening to break through his impassive expression. "Besides, it is too early in the season for mysterious disappearances."

Hermione looked right at him, taking in his appearance with a glance. He was rumpled around the edges, as if he'd gotten dressed in a hurry, and his hair, though messy as usual, was damp. His glasses were crooked, and he hastened to straighten his shirt cuffs before he met her gaze. His eyes were bright, warm. This was, she realized, the most relaxed she had ever seen him.

Lady McGonagall seemed to be thinking along similar lines as she looked her godson up and down. "You look as though you've just rolled off a vegetable cart. Where on earth have you been?"

"Ask me no questions," said the Duke, "and I'll tell you no lies."

"Incorrigible," said Lady McGonagall, though it almost sounded fond. "I was just saying to Draco what a pity it was to see Miss Granger all but abandoned by you, Your Grace."

"You seem to imply that Miss Granger is not more than capable of holding her own," he replied. He was still looking at Hermione, and Hermione did not quite know how to handle it.

"Holding her own, yes," Lady McGonagall allowed, "but one cannot dance by oneself." Her eyes sparkled as she looked at Hermione. "Unless Miss Granger knows something I do not."

Hermione smiled back at her. "I do not think that is possible, my Lady."

Lady McGonagall chuckled and turned back to her godson. "Please ensure that she has a most pleasant evening. Come along, Draco, let us leave them to their sweet nothings."

Lord Malfoy seemed thoroughly repulsed by the idea of sweet nothings, but he nodded. "Miss Granger, a pleasure." He met Harry's gaze. "Prat."

"Ferret."

And with that, Malfoy turned and escorted Lady McGonagall into the next room. Hermione watched them leave, still smiling.

"I truly am sorry for my lateness," the Duke said, regaining her attention. "It was not my intention to leave you feeling abandoned."

"Not at all, Your Grace," she said, then at his warning look, quickly added, "Harry." The name still felt so peculiar in her mouth. Too personal, too real. "I enjoyed conversing with them. Lord Malfoy certainly is of singular character."

"That is a generous way of putting it," the Duke replied. He was still fussing with bits of his outfit, tucking in and rotating various things. "I should have known that she would corner you. She has a habit of being obstinate and… well, nosy."

"I suppose she has a right. She is your godmother, after all."

"Yes, she's always been somewhat protective."

Hermione filed that away for later thought. "Now, if I ask after your appearance, will you give me the honest answer you could not afford your godmother?"

For a moment, the Duke almost smiled. "Maybe," he said. He was looking around the room, taking stock of everybody. "I did not answer because I knew she would not approve. I was boxing."

Hermione wasn't sure what she had expected, but it wasn't that. "Boxing?"

"Sparring," he clarified, seizing a glass of champagne from a passing tray. "It lasted rather longer than it was supposed to, and I became separated from my driver. Neville and I had to make our way through half the East End before we were able to hail a decent cab and get back to my house. God, I'm parched." He took a gulp of champagne and pulled a face. "Ugh, that's awful."

"The East End?" she repeated, having trouble imagining it.

"Yes," he replied, like it was nothing. He swallowed the rest of the champagne, winced again, and traded his empty glass for a full one from another passing tray. "I had to rinse off and change." Which explained his damp hair. When he took yet another swig of champagne, his face caught the light. It was then that she noticed the dark, blotchy area along the left edge of his jaw.

Hermione's mouth fell open and, before she could stop herself, she reached out to grip his arm, her nails digging through her gloves and into the fabric of his jacket. "Surely I am imagining things," she hissed. "Surely that is not a fresh bruise on your face!"

To her utter amazement, he did smile then, cheeky and sheepish. "Wood has a mean right hook," he said, by way of answering her. "And usually, he aims below the collar."

"What?!" she bit out, then, again before she could stop herself, she darted out a hand and shoved him in the ribs. "Like that?!"

The Duke hunched into the blow, letting out a strangled wheeze. His champagne tipped dangerously close to the edge of his glass. He shot her a glare even as he clung to her arm, trying to remain standing. "That," he bit out, "was uncalled for."

"This is unacceptable!" she hissed, anger flaring under her skin. It was taking all of her willpower not to throttle him, or worse, walk away from him entirely. "We have to dance! We have to mingle! You cannot do all that while nursing a set of cracked ribs—"

"Bruised." His eyes flashed as he struggled to draw breath. "Not cracked."

"Do you wish to test that hypothesis?" She glared down at him, her good mood evaporating like wax from a candle. "I thought you were taking this seriously."

Her words seemed to unnerve him. And it unnerved her, this still-new privilege of seeing actual emotions on his face. "I am," he managed. "I did not think—"

"That much," she spat. "Is clear."

"Hermione," he said, in a low, pleading tone she had never heard him use before. It turned her veins to ice, freezing her in place. It was the only reason she did not leave. The Duke — Harry — looked up at her, and his emerald gaze bore into her own. In spite of herself, she shivered. "Would you rather I had not come at all?"

"We had a deal," she said, because if he did not give her real answers, she would not give them to him, either. "We had a deal, and you—"

"I know." There it was. Frustration. He heaved a great breath and forced himself upright and out of her grasp. "Trust me, none of it went according to plan."

She scoffed, some heat returning to her body. "And yet you allowed it to happen anyway." Hermione shook her head, her gaze drifting to some of the nearby guests. They had taken little notice of her and the Duke; dim corners had their benefits, she supposed. "Perhaps we were foolish, to think this possible."

"Hermione." Pleading, still, but with an edge of rebuke. "It has only been a few days. It is far too soon for either of us to give up, and odds are, we will have to weather much worse than this if we are to make it through the entire season."

She closed her eyes for just a moment. "I suppose." When she opened them again, she looked right at him. "Please do not do this again."

She had not realized how much was in that sentence until it was hanging in the air between them, heavy and full. The Duke — Harry — looked back at her, and he nodded. "I will not."

Then, right at that imperfect moment, Cadogan decided to appear, a glass of wine in one hand and his tie in the other. Like Harry, he was rumpled, his clothes creased and somewhat messily put together. "Miss Granger!" he said, delighted. "I have found you at last. How is your evening?"

Hermione managed a smile. "Lovely, thank you. The Duke has just been telling me of all your adventures this afternoon."

Cadogan's ears went bright red, though his expression did not change. Hermione wondered if that took practice. "Yes, uh— a most splendid, if infuriating time though it was." He sort of laughed. "Forgive me, I am still playing catch-up — where is Lady Lovegood?"

"I am not sure," Hermione replied. "We were separated shortly after we arrived. She may be in the ballroom, waiting for the dancing to begin."

"Good God," said the Duke. He was leaning against the wall now, nursing his champagne. "I'd almost forgotten about the Queen."

The music would not start until she arrived. "Me too," said Hermione, and for a moment, she could not feel more different than she had when she'd arrived. She no longer felt excited, ready, confident. Instead, she was tired, and anxious to get it all over with. She looked up at Cadogan, at his eager face, and realized that she had to tell him something. "Though… I am afraid Luna has already promised her first dance to someone else."

Something flickered across his face and was gone. "Has she? No matter." He took a sip of wine. "I arrived late, after all. I cannot expect her to wait for me."

"I suppose," Hermione said, because she wasn't sure what else to say. Luna was rather a mystery to her at the moment, as well.

Thankfully, she was saved by a blast of sound — a fanfare, to announce the Queen's arrival. It was as if lightning had hit the manor. Everyone flew into a flurry of excitement, abandoning their drinks and their cards as they flocked to the entrance hall, desperate to be the first to see her.

Cadogan's shoulders straightened and he drained his glass. "Looks like we've been summoned."

"You go ahead," said the Duke, somewhat to her surprise. "We'll be along in a minute."

If Cadogan was taken aback by this, he hid it. He merely nodded, gave Hermione a smile, and followed the crowds into the next room.

When Hermione turned, the Duke was looking at her in that uncanny, piercing way of his. "Only waltzes," he said. "And slow ones at that."

She almost smiled. "Yes," she agreed. "That seems fair."

"One other thing," he said. He pushed himself away from the wall with a wince, put down his empty glass, and made his way over to an open window, where the night air poured in. "I cannot begin the evening with the taste of champagne in my mouth." The Duke paused with his hand on the windowsill. "I hope that is what we can do. Begin again."

Every part of her wanted to shake her head, to deny him this bookend to his apology. But then, she said, "Yes. We can."

He gave her a nod. "Good." With that, he nearly threw himself out the window, leaning out far enough to grab something and pull it back in with him.

Hermione could only watch, mute with confusion, as he crossed the empty room, closing the distance between them and holding out a bundle of leaves and flowers. "Honeysuckle?" she said.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Indulge me? I hate the food at these things."

"I—" For a moment, she did not know what to say. "I haven't… not since I was a child."

"Go on, then," he said, teasing. He pressed a few blooms into her gloved hand.

Hermione looked down at the flowers, sumptuous and golden yellow in the low light, and felt a part of her resolve give way. She gathered the flowers together with their blooms in her palm, pinched the ends, pulled, and bent to drink the nectar.

It was sun-warm, sweet, far more delicious than any punch. Hermione could not hold back a smile as the Duke copied her, a drop of nectar catching in the corner of his mouth.

"See?" He almost grinned. "Much better."

"It is," she agreed, reaching for more flowers. "How did you—?"

"The house is covered in it," the Duke replied. "I supposed that we may as well make the most of it."

A small part of Hermione thrilled at the way he said we, the nectar sliding down her throat in a way that felt almost forbidden. "Well then," she said. "Let's go see the Queen."

"Yes," said the Duke, flinging the spent blooms onto a nearby table. He offered her his good arm and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Let's."

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